Category Archives: The Cathar Way

Chapter 2: ‘Stig Illuminati’

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We joined forces in a place called Marmande (or Marmalade, as Rose named it) after he arrived from Goa via Saudi Arabia and an overnight Paris stop, and I drove down from Northern France having taken the overnight ferry. Rose amused himself on the way by hiding out in Riyadh airport for twelve hours, getting his dates wrong (thereby arriving in France 24 hours too early), and paying a call on the ghost of Django Reinhardt at his La Chope des Puce, café and jazz restaurant. It was closed. Django was chained. A night in a cheap Paris flop house, as is his wont, and Rose was on his way.

In contrast, I arrived at the ferry port with ample time to spare, got an early place at the restaurant and enjoyed some fine French dining and a superb bottle of Medoc. A tour around the deck, some bracing sea air and a final nightcap gave ample incentive to retire to bed.

After an excellent night’s sleep aboard ship and a less than adequate French attempt at an English breakfast, I put the pedal to the metal and drove the 750 kilometres to our rendezvous. Turning left just outside of town led me to the car park of one of those wonderful, cheap and entirely adequate French travel hotels. Upon negotiating my stay, the receptionist strangely expecting me and pairing me with Rose, out of the lift walked, or rather flopped, the man himself.

A few words about Rose. Rose is resolutely both male and masculine, displaying all the expected attributes of a fellow of his age. Ex-musclebound bodies in their fifties do tend to allow lipids to lie comfortably where previously there was only fibrous tissue. Rose is no exception and is a fine example of this universal law. A year of near equatorial living has also enhanced this rather marvellous effect. In his now typical flip flop, shorts and t

But why was he here? What would possess a seemingly sane and sensible man of his age to spend 36 hours in and between various tropical airports, several more hours making high speed progress on a TGV the length of France to appear like magic out of an Accor lift? The answer is another beginning.

Following those early crayon drawings referred to in the previous blog post, I had started to organise the 2015 wander – a six day trek along half of the Cathar Way in southern France. My dearly beloved had ‘suggested’ (a rather marvellous euphemism if ever there was one) that I should try a light weight first return attempt at long distance walking. This meant skipping the tent, cooker, sleeping bag, Karrimat, eating utensils, washing up bowl, gas bottle, toilet spade and kitchen sink, and organise accommodation en-route. This I duly did but her anxiety was still palpable at the thought of me going solo, despite the fact that I have been using my legs without benefit of an instructor for most of the previous 50 plus years.

Three weeks before the off, I received an email from Saudia Airlines headed ‘A friend wants to share his trip with you’. Very nice, I thought those days had long passed. On closer inspection it outlined a highly complex and tortuous journey from the Indian subcontinent to Paris and back again. Rose was on the move. His own dearly beloved had instigated the trip, or so we are led to believe; the mysterious connection between those of a different gender probably being the prime suspect for such an eventuality, given the rather improbable prospect of Rose shifting out of monsoon mode and into action via the world of Salafi Islam.

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So there we were, two old and ancient friends staring across the lobby. It was quite an emotional meeting and of course led to a rather riotous evening in Marmalade’s only gay restaurant. It would have been rude not to. We drank some pretty average to vile beers in a local bar, via a brief stop to sample some stupendous red from a local wine merchant, and then had an excellent set meal at the restaurant. We sat outside in the square eating before a DJ came along; Rose danced with the waitress and then Top Gear’s Stig made an appearance in a multi-coloured illuminated racing suit. There was a point in the evening where Rose looked at the empty (and gorgeous) wine bottle, suggested ordering another, when I knew we were lost. It would not be the first time. I am surprised it took us so long.

Chapter 3: ‘The Day after the Night Before’

Rose tells me that the next day dawned bright, although it was stretching a point to apply this description to our internal state on the advent of our adventures. The lovely people at the hotel, having had the foresight to stock their breakfast bar with the requisite amount of French carbohydrate and caffeine, waved us – now cheerily and cheered – on our way as we headed off to search for our car in the hotel car park.

Having located the car, we then proceeded to fill it up with Rose’s accoutrements, adding them to the vast array of Wanderingman family belongings already spilling out of every crevice. From beers to a guitar, suitcases to multiple hats, our small chariot strained at the seams. Rose had brought not one but two rucksacks with him and we loaded and unloaded multiple times before settling on the perfect packing regime. At one point Rose disappeared back into the hotel to restock up on bread and jam, such was the carbohydrate sapping nature of the task. The sun too was playing its part in our encroaching exhaustion.

Compared to British, or indeed German and Italian motorways, French autoroutes are generally a joy. Fast moving, under-occupied and efficient due no doubt to the preference of most French drivers to tootle along behind militant tractor drivers on parallel ‘N’ roads rather than pay the tolls, they provide a speedy link to far flung destinations in the vast country. So we slipped effortlessly through the tollgate and onto one such road heading towards Toulouse, not wishing, in true Monty Python style, to squander any of our precious time.

After negotiating the Toulouse ring road, heartily sick even of this excellent French motorway, we headed south into the Pyrenees up the Ariege valley, which unbeknown to us, geography not being our strong suit, was actually to be the end of our walk seven days later. Coasting east behind several agricultural vehicles, we eventually turned off to stop for a coffee at a lovely ancient small town called Mirapoix.

We entered through an old medieval city gate, to find ourselves in a typical Bastide, with a central market square surrounded by wooden gargoyled buildings, their first floors covering wide promenade pavements on all sides. We wandered around, not something that took an inordinate amount of our time, before settling down to some gargoyle spotting and a coffee. Despite the close proximity of beer-o-clock we sensibly abstained for a few more minutes as the restaurants began their rigid French opening routine.

No one in France is allowed, by law one presumes, to eat lunch before the clock has struck midday. Prior to this time it is perfectly acceptable to consume as much coffee as is possible, provided one does not allow solids to pass one’s lips. The ritual of the French lunch is a thing to behold. The only people able to consume even a modicum of victuals are the staff themselves, who raise a well practised digit in the direction of the famished populace by sitting outside their own restaurants scoffing away from 11.30 onwards. Aside from the cooks, servers and bottle washers, the tables are empty until 12.00. By 12.01, there is not a chair to be had anywhere, as the French multitudes descend for their obligatory two-hour repast.

And so, with a close eye on the clock, Rose and I toured the lunch possibilities leading up to D-time. We joined the steadily increasing group of potential diners, reading menus and then moving on to the next, shiftily avoiding eye contact with one another, giving no hint as to which would be the one preferred so as not to start a stampede towards one particular, and possibly the best, restaurant in town. It was like the subtle manoeuvrings of a flotilla of yachts trying to get the timing and advantage just right prior to the start of a race.

Rose and I played a blinder. We spotted a restaurant slightly off the main square and down a little street, offering a traditional local lunchtime menu. We checked out the menu using the well known ‘sideways glance’ technique. Of particular merit, was the impressive moustache sported by the patron. That was the clincher. Of course, we could not allow our mounting excitement to become apparent to the swirling mass of other waiting diners, so we walked quickly back to the main square and feigned just enough subtle interest in the other restaurants to keep our opponents guessing. Our real interest we kept entirely covert.

At last, as the town clock approached midday, we judged our approach and headed smartly towards our goal, selecting and sitting down at the best table outside just as the hour turned. Our puzzled competitors looked on with bewilderment but we had our prize, and ultimately, our lunch.

We were not disappointed. Lunch in France really is a marvel. Rarely costing more than 10-12 Euros, it generally consists of three courses with bread and wine or coffee. Such a meal in the evening would cost twice as much. “When in France, eat at lunchtime young man”. We ate a traditional local meal including the best boudin (black/blood pudding) either of us had ever tasted. Dense and chewy, it was as chalk is to cheese in comparison to the dull breakfast fare we were used to in the UK. Accompanied by as much bread as we could eat, salad, desert and a carafe of very passable red wine we sat and marvelled at the other fools munching their hamburgers in the square.

Sufficiently fortified and now fully recovered from the previous night’s excursions we once more found our selves directionally challenged by the onward route . Driving in and out of town twice was a little excessive but clearly necessary as we eventually left Mirapoix’s orbit in the direction of Quillan, our destination for the evening. Firstly, however, we had an appointment to keep. We had some beer to taste. We were headed for the Brasserie Du Quercorb.