Day 9 - Carcassonne

Day 9—Monday, May 18, 1992

I got up about 9:00 a.m., took care of morning matters, and then we checked out of the hotel. Although Hotel Marcel was a bargain (it turned out to be the least expensive hotel we stayed at), they did overcharge us for a second breakfast that we didn’t have. We planned to stop in the town of Cahors for our morning coffee, but the town was so congested, we just drove on through. Where it was that we did finally stop for coffee escapes me. Perhaps it was in Caussade, but I can’t recall any details.

A short ways out of Caussade, we left the main highway to follow narrow, winding secondary roads to Albi. For the most part the roads were in very good shape, mostly barren of traffic, and wound through more scenic French countryside. We stopped once for gas and once so I could clean the windshield of the hundreds of insects that made it their final destination. Then we drove into Albi and parked the car right out in front of Ste. Cecile, a thirteenth century basilica that strongly resembles a fortress on the outside. Ste. Cecile was closed until 2:00 p.m., so we had over an hour to kill before touring it. We walked down to Tarn River, then doubled back and walked through town, window shopping and looking for a bank. Then we returned to the basilica and toured it. I wouldn’t rank Ste. Cecile near the top of my list of most memorable churches, but it was distinctive and worth the visit. The walls are adorned with paintings and geometric designs. One painting in particular on the front wall, depicting a great many suffering souls, was gripping. We paid 1 franc apiece to go into the rear section of the church, where on the way out I managed to lock us in. We were soon rescued from a life of the cloth by the doorman.

We returned to the shopping district in town, and this time we actually bought some stuff—like cold beer (Kronenbourg for only 6 francs), two mini quiches, a French beret for me, and a flowered-patterned pleated skirt for Sharon. The prices in Albi seemed to be most reasonable, and we would soon regret having not bought more goodies there.

Back on the road, we decided that “Albi” would be a fiendishly good name to saddle a boy with, even more so with the inclusion of “Amadeus” as a middle name. The kid wouldn’t stand a chance. “Time for your violin lessons, Albi.” “Dresses are coming back in style for young boys, Albi.” You get the idea.

A couple miles from Albi, the town not the abused boy, as we were looking for a place to have our lunch, I got stung twice in the back by some sort of insect that had managed to end up down my shirt. Fortunately, there was a bus stop nearby, so I pulled over before being stung to death. Near the bus stop was a country lane, and that’s where we had our quiches and beer and examined the two fresh welts on my back. Then we drove on toward our next destination, that being Carcassonne. We got as far as the town of Castres and got lost. Although Carcassonne was only forty miles away, and Carcassonne is a good-sized town, every damn road sign we saw pointed to Toulouse. We eventually made it to Carcassonne, but it sure wasn’t by the route I’d intended to take. Once in Carcassonne we encountered more driving problems, actually Sharon did because she was driving. We followed the signs to the Cité de Carcassonne, which is a medieval citadel on a hill in the southeast part of town, and then drove right past it into a snarl of rush hour traffic in the 20th Century part of town. But we got back on track and were soon parked right outside the fortress walls.

Carcassonne is one hell of place to play with imaginary Huns, and Vandals, and Tartars, and Visigoths, and all the other barbarians who ever lived. Few places either of us had ever visited, if any, made us feel like we’d stepped back in time more so than this place. The imagery was enhanced by the fact that it was late in the day and as such there were very few visitors, although over two hours of daylight remained to explore. After our initial round of exploration, we inquired about accommodations at two hotels inside the walls—one was full and the other was prohibitively expensive. So instead we searched for a restaurant and came upon the La Table Ronde, where we dined al fresco beneath the trees. I ordered a local stew called cassoulet, which was quite tasty, and Sharon ordered salmon, which is a pink fish. My meal was better. After dinner we returned to the walls to defend the fortress from the gathering hordes of Huns, et al. It was remarkable how deserted the place was—we virtually had it to ourselves. But not quite. We came upon and befriended a sweet gray cat, le chat de Carcassonne, who accompanied us for a good ways in our further perambulations.

One thing I can testify to is that cavorting in a seemingly deserted medieval fortress as the sun sets does something to one’s hormones. It stirs them up. So right there on the wall walk, looking over the parapet on the town below, we did it. And wouldn’t you know it, no sooner had we finished and hopped down from our perch, a group of forty or more young boys and girls come traipsing by. Timing is everything.

We laughed about it, bought a couple cold beers to go (à emporter), and left the Cite. Initially we planned to drive out of town to look for a hotel, but we changed our minds and instead looked for one nearby. And no more than a hundred yards from the entrance to the Cite, we found the Hôtel l’Aragon. We checked into our room, and while Sharon soaked her foot in the tub, I flipped on the television, catching the last few minutes of the movie “The Dream Team.” Then we went back out to explore Carcassonne by night. We didn’t stay out long, in part because Sharon’s foot was acting up again after being miraculously cured by the activity alluded to in the preceding paragraph. We drank a couple beers at an outdoor cafe, met a lady with two cats, sat for a while on the wall, and then headed back to the Hotel Aragon. I watched a bit more television, drank a beer or two, and then about 1:00 a.m. we called it a day.

HIGHLIGHT: What do you think?

LOWLIGHT: All those damn signs to Toulouse and none to Carcassonne.

NOTES: Today was another hot and sunny day. The whether so far had been nothing short of splendid. My cold had greatly improved to the point where it was basically a non-factor. Sharon’s ankle, unfortunately, remained a factor.

REFLECTIONS FROM 2020:

The first photo on the left was taken at Berbie Palace in Albi. The palace is located along the Tarn River and next door to Sainte-Cecile Cathedral, only I didn’t know any of that until a couple of days ago. I had labeled the photo as having been taken on 5/17/92, but when revising the journal, I seemed to recall the palace being in Albi. I had to know. So after spending over an hour, perhaps way over, I finally tracked it down and learned its name. I can’t say that has made me a wiser man, but it is one less itch to scratch.

The history of Cité de Carcassonne was pretty much unknown to us at the time of our visit. Not that we gave it much thought, but I think we just assumed it was really old. And indeed, prior settlements and fortresses at the location date back about 2,500 years. The current citadel, however, is largely a restoration that was completed at the end of the 19th Century.

The photo of Sharon sitting on the wall of the Cite by the arched entryway has its own history. I posted it in the Wikipedia article for “Carcassonne” in 2008, where it remained prominently displayed for many years, although in recent years it’s been relegated to a sub-gallery. The image has, however, made its presence felt, showing up in a vast and varied array of websites around the world. And that’s pretty cool.

And don’t say I didn’t warn you that there was going to be some hanky-panky going on. In part due to our little jig on the wall, along with everything else we did this day, I ranked it the #1 day of the 1992.