... and 593 days early.
Yesterday Gay and I walked what is almost certainly the first stage of VBW. But we walked it in the reverse direction, from Mirepoix to Puivert, 29 or 30 kilometres.
We have been wanting to do this for a while, but the difficulty was getting to Mirepoix so that we could set off walking. Of course we could go by car, and often do, but this would leave the car sitting 30 kms from home. The other long walks I have done have been when we have happened to be somewhere, such as Limoux, on other business, then Gay has driven home while I walked.
Public transport, I hear you say. To summarise the public transport available in Puivert. There is a bus service, which goes from Puivert to Quillan (16kms) every Tuesday morning, one way, and there is another bus which triumphantly returns from Quillan to Puivert on Friday afternoon. That's it - I can think of no reason why anybody should want to spend all that time in Quillan, but those are the arrangements.
Monday is market day in Mirepoix. We know of one couple who go to that market sometimes and we had been thinking of trying to catch a ride with them, but have not got round to it. But just lately a notice at the Mairie caught our eye. An enterprising taxi company from Chalabre has set up a taxi-bus service to take people to various markets on the appropriate days - and to bring them back the same day. We homed in on this and telephoned to reserve a seat to Mirepoix yesterday. The taxi will leave Chalabre (8 or 9 kms) at 9, so should be with you about half past, we were told. The taxi would come to the door.
The taxi arrived at 8.50, which is fine for us, but we know people who would not even be out of bed at that time for a scheduled 9.30 departure. We were pleased because it meant we could probably set off early for our 5-hour walk.
Off we set at breakneck speed down the road to Chalabre, which is very sinuous. It was all very alarming. From Chalabre, instead of taking the road to Mirepoix, we headed towards Limoux. Fortunately there was some slow traffic in front of us, which moderated our minibus and made life more comfortable. It also enabled us to observe some extremely alarming overtaking by other vehicles. Even our driver, clearly not averse to a bit of Lewis Hamiltonery, was zutting and throwing his hands in the air.
We turned off the Limoux road and had some exciting times down a single lane track to pick up an elderly woman and her son, then back down some more roads new to us, stopping once more for another woman, arriving in Mirepoix at about 10. Apart from the fact that we were itching to get some breakfast and start the long walk, it was all quite interesting.
I was amazed by the cost of all this. For the two of us, one way to Mirepoix, including the entertainment and tour of the countryside, the cost was 5 Euros. Considering the number of passengers, we can not believe that this service is profitable or that it will be available for long unless more use is made of it.
We went to the splendid boulangerie and bought our breakfast - a pain aux raisins for me and a croissant for Gay - took these to our favourite cafe (there are many in Mirepoix) on the square, had a quick look round the market, then, with a full fuel load, took off.
From Mirepoix to Chalabre the route was off-road, an old railway track. The total number of people we saw on the 21 kms of this track was 6 - 3 lone cyclists, a couple on a tandem, and a woman walking her dogs.
It was quite a warm day, the walk was uneventful, we stopped in the beautiful village of Camon to eat our sandwiches, again in Chalabre for a drink, and arrived home tired but happy, after 5 hours walking
Showing posts with label Puivert. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Puivert. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
I'm Walking, Yes Indeed I'm Walking
Today I walked the 30 kms from Limoux to home again. When I did this two weeks ago it was after a visit to the dentist - same again today. Two weeks ago I accidentally picked the hottest day of the year - today was a fine day but the temperature stayed in the twenties. And, cunningly, in between the two walks I spent 6 days in Italy, where the temperature was over 35 degrees with very high humidity. So today it didn't seem so hot.
I still managed to arrive home weighing 2 kg less than when I got up this morning, despite breakfast, lunch, a cup of tea, two cups of coffee and a litre of water. The loss is all water, of course. I will have to watch that - all my athletic life I have been told I do not drink enough. I have survived, but I have never done a 70-day event before.
I noticed last time that there is now a cafe in Bouriège, at 12 or 13 kms into the walk. This is new. Today I stopped for a coffee. I took this outside, where two men and a woman were at one of the tables. I sat at the other. I was immediatedly engaged in conversation by one of the men.
"Where do you come from?"
"England," I said.
"Good answer, but ..." It was now clear he meant where had I come from today.
"Limoux".
"And you go to?"
"Puivert". He goggled. Gitane in one hand, glass of beer in the other. Not a distance man, then.
"Why, why do you walk?" said Erik, for this was he.
I explained that I liked walking. Further questioning elicited my plans for VBW. He leapt to his feet and shook my hand. This is not the first time I have had this reaction. How unlike the home life of our own sad commenter on my blog!
Erik turned to the other man and woman and told them what I intended to do. The other man said, "A pied?" (on foot?). I confessed that this was true. He whistled. The woman whistled too. Erik said she was a perroquet (parrot). The second man told me "Congratulations". Casting aside for a moment my egocentric infection, I pointed out that it was a little early for congratulation - so far it was only a plan.
"You'll be doing this at 70 years? What's your secret, then?" says Erik. He held up the fag and the drink. "You don't smoke or drink?" I admitted I didn't smoke and that I had never had a glass of beer in my life, but that I do drink wine with food.
I had finished my coffee and was ready to go. The traiteur's (butcher's) van arrived, directly in front of our tables. The other three and the people from the bar hurried to the van. What would these small French villages do without the traiteur and other mobile shops?
I was saying goodbye and walking away when the traiteur opened up the side of the van and the meat caught my eye. I told Erik that if I did have a secret, maybe it was that I was a vegetarian. "Ah, I understand," he said, tapping the side of his nose.
Last time I did this walk I could find no shade to stop and eat my lunch. Now the sun has moved on south and there was the occasional patch of shadow. I found one which included a bridge with low walls where I could sit, feet in the road (once again very little traffic after the first few kilometres), while I took out my sandwiches. This was very appropriate - I had a bridge at each end of me - my visits to the dentist recently have been because I had to have one of my front teeth removed because of an abscess which had eaten away the bone - I have for some weeks been porting a temporary bridge instead and today I had the definitif version fitted.
My sandwiches were magnificent. Avocado, humous and tomato. Before we left for Limoux at 8 this morning, Gay made the humous, she had already made the bread, and she had grown the tomatoes herself. Only the avocado was shop-bought. Watch this space, she can turn her hand to anything.
I still managed to arrive home weighing 2 kg less than when I got up this morning, despite breakfast, lunch, a cup of tea, two cups of coffee and a litre of water. The loss is all water, of course. I will have to watch that - all my athletic life I have been told I do not drink enough. I have survived, but I have never done a 70-day event before.
I noticed last time that there is now a cafe in Bouriège, at 12 or 13 kms into the walk. This is new. Today I stopped for a coffee. I took this outside, where two men and a woman were at one of the tables. I sat at the other. I was immediatedly engaged in conversation by one of the men.
"Where do you come from?"
"England," I said.
"Good answer, but ..." It was now clear he meant where had I come from today.
"Limoux".
"And you go to?"
"Puivert". He goggled. Gitane in one hand, glass of beer in the other. Not a distance man, then.
"Why, why do you walk?" said Erik, for this was he.
I explained that I liked walking. Further questioning elicited my plans for VBW. He leapt to his feet and shook my hand. This is not the first time I have had this reaction. How unlike the home life of our own sad commenter on my blog!
Erik turned to the other man and woman and told them what I intended to do. The other man said, "A pied?" (on foot?). I confessed that this was true. He whistled. The woman whistled too. Erik said she was a perroquet (parrot). The second man told me "Congratulations". Casting aside for a moment my egocentric infection, I pointed out that it was a little early for congratulation - so far it was only a plan.
"You'll be doing this at 70 years? What's your secret, then?" says Erik. He held up the fag and the drink. "You don't smoke or drink?" I admitted I didn't smoke and that I had never had a glass of beer in my life, but that I do drink wine with food.
I had finished my coffee and was ready to go. The traiteur's (butcher's) van arrived, directly in front of our tables. The other three and the people from the bar hurried to the van. What would these small French villages do without the traiteur and other mobile shops?
I was saying goodbye and walking away when the traiteur opened up the side of the van and the meat caught my eye. I told Erik that if I did have a secret, maybe it was that I was a vegetarian. "Ah, I understand," he said, tapping the side of his nose.
Last time I did this walk I could find no shade to stop and eat my lunch. Now the sun has moved on south and there was the occasional patch of shadow. I found one which included a bridge with low walls where I could sit, feet in the road (once again very little traffic after the first few kilometres), while I took out my sandwiches. This was very appropriate - I had a bridge at each end of me - my visits to the dentist recently have been because I had to have one of my front teeth removed because of an abscess which had eaten away the bone - I have for some weeks been porting a temporary bridge instead and today I had the definitif version fitted.
My sandwiches were magnificent. Avocado, humous and tomato. Before we left for Limoux at 8 this morning, Gay made the humous, she had already made the bread, and she had grown the tomatoes herself. Only the avocado was shop-bought. Watch this space, she can turn her hand to anything.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Paradise Found
I promised to tell you more about Puivert, where I live, and from where I will be starting to walk backwards through my life.
My youngest daughter, Nicola, was a student at Bologna, the oldest university in the world. Then she decided to live in Italy. This was a country I had never visited, so it was obviously time to rectify that. In 1991 Gay and I (who lived in Cheshire, England, at the time) drove across Europe on our first visit to Nicola's first Italian home. On the way back we made a small (!!) detour.
We had recently read a book which described the mediaeval walled city of Carcassonne in Southern France. This seemed to be worth our investigation, so instead of driving straight back to UK from Italy, we went via Carcassonne. We know very well now that this meant driving all three sides of an equilateral triangle, all three legs of the journey being approximately 1000 miles. But it was worth it. Carcassonne is an amazing sight. You can easily find details of it on t'Interweb so I will say little more about it.
We spent a little time exploring south of Carcassonne, but the weather was bad so we did not see so much. Enough, though, to decide that we needed to come again. Which we did the next year, and the next year, and so on.
We soon discovered that the area is absolutely soaked in history and mystery. One of many aspects of this is the story of the Cathars, a peaceful branch of the Christian religion, which, in the 11th and 12th centuries, was gaining so many adherents that it was seen as a threat to the Catholic church. The pope got togetherwith the French king, who rather fancied the territory, because at that time the Languedoc was not a part of France. Between them they organised a crusade to crush the Cathars and their supporters, and to integrate Languedoc into France. The crusade went on for 30 years. Again, it is very easy to find information about this so I will not spend too much time on it.
One thing I will mention is that the Inquisition was invented at this time, in this area, for the express purpose of rooting out and burning Cathars. One rarely hears the word Inquisition without the adjective Spanish. But that was 200 years later and the Spanish were merely using a tool which had already efficiently wiped out a belief. The operation went on for the duration of the crusade and for long after, until there were no Cathars left.
I think it is also worth pointing out that the Languedoc was one of the most prosperous and cultured areas in Europe, second only to Byzantium, at that time. The culture and the prosperity were destroyed by the Crusade and its aftermath, and the area has never recovered that position.
There are many more layers to the fascinating history of the area. There are still visible traces of the Visigoths, those sackers of Rome, who had their Western base not far from our home.
All this in an area of stunning natural beauty, in the foothills of the Pyrenees.
It was on our second visit to the area that we found Puivert, a village 50 kms south of Carcassonne. Together with its 10 or so satellite hamlets, it has a total population of maybe 1000. On some motoring maps, even motoring atlases, you will not find Puivert marked.
We returned to the area every year, camping either in a tent or in a motor caravan. Puivert campsite, with its wonderful view of the chateau de Puivert, was one we regularly used as a base. At the time, the area, not far north of the Spanish border, was not on the tourist trail. We very rarely heard an English voice or saw an English registered car. In the past 7 years or so, Ryanair, with its cheap flights, has changed all that and many of their customers have bought property in the area.
After several years of visiting, we had not given much thought to living in the area, or in France. In fact, in 1995, having decided to live abroad, we decided on Cyprus. We lived there in the winters, but still had our house in Cheshire and returned there in the summers. Or maybe I should say we were based there. Because we still spent weeks every year in the area of France that is now our home. We were captivated by it and it was not long before we took the plunge and bought a house which was, we understand, built by a drum major in Napoleon's army. Soon after this we sold the English house.
We are 500 metres above sea level. From one of our roof windows we can see the mediaeval castle. From our bedroom window we can see the plateau at 1000 metres, where 400 members of the Resistance were camped out during the Second World War, supplied from the air by the Royal Air Force and able to see, from their great height, if the occupying German army were approaching. There is a huge amount of visible history in the area, in spectacular settings. The roads are quiet, the weather is generally kind, without the stifling heat often found at lower altitudes. The local population has always treated us with the utmost kindness and courtesy.
We love the winters we now spend in New Zealand (3 months at a time) but it is becoming increasingly hard to tear ourselves away from what still seems, after 17 years of visiting, and 11 years of residence, like Paradise.
There is much more I could say but I think blog entries should generally be short, so I will return to the subject in later posts.
My youngest daughter, Nicola, was a student at Bologna, the oldest university in the world. Then she decided to live in Italy. This was a country I had never visited, so it was obviously time to rectify that. In 1991 Gay and I (who lived in Cheshire, England, at the time) drove across Europe on our first visit to Nicola's first Italian home. On the way back we made a small (!!) detour.
We had recently read a book which described the mediaeval walled city of Carcassonne in Southern France. This seemed to be worth our investigation, so instead of driving straight back to UK from Italy, we went via Carcassonne. We know very well now that this meant driving all three sides of an equilateral triangle, all three legs of the journey being approximately 1000 miles. But it was worth it. Carcassonne is an amazing sight. You can easily find details of it on t'Interweb so I will say little more about it.
We spent a little time exploring south of Carcassonne, but the weather was bad so we did not see so much. Enough, though, to decide that we needed to come again. Which we did the next year, and the next year, and so on.
We soon discovered that the area is absolutely soaked in history and mystery. One of many aspects of this is the story of the Cathars, a peaceful branch of the Christian religion, which, in the 11th and 12th centuries, was gaining so many adherents that it was seen as a threat to the Catholic church. The pope got togetherwith the French king, who rather fancied the territory, because at that time the Languedoc was not a part of France. Between them they organised a crusade to crush the Cathars and their supporters, and to integrate Languedoc into France. The crusade went on for 30 years. Again, it is very easy to find information about this so I will not spend too much time on it.
One thing I will mention is that the Inquisition was invented at this time, in this area, for the express purpose of rooting out and burning Cathars. One rarely hears the word Inquisition without the adjective Spanish. But that was 200 years later and the Spanish were merely using a tool which had already efficiently wiped out a belief. The operation went on for the duration of the crusade and for long after, until there were no Cathars left.
I think it is also worth pointing out that the Languedoc was one of the most prosperous and cultured areas in Europe, second only to Byzantium, at that time. The culture and the prosperity were destroyed by the Crusade and its aftermath, and the area has never recovered that position.
There are many more layers to the fascinating history of the area. There are still visible traces of the Visigoths, those sackers of Rome, who had their Western base not far from our home.
All this in an area of stunning natural beauty, in the foothills of the Pyrenees.
It was on our second visit to the area that we found Puivert, a village 50 kms south of Carcassonne. Together with its 10 or so satellite hamlets, it has a total population of maybe 1000. On some motoring maps, even motoring atlases, you will not find Puivert marked.
We returned to the area every year, camping either in a tent or in a motor caravan. Puivert campsite, with its wonderful view of the chateau de Puivert, was one we regularly used as a base. At the time, the area, not far north of the Spanish border, was not on the tourist trail. We very rarely heard an English voice or saw an English registered car. In the past 7 years or so, Ryanair, with its cheap flights, has changed all that and many of their customers have bought property in the area.
After several years of visiting, we had not given much thought to living in the area, or in France. In fact, in 1995, having decided to live abroad, we decided on Cyprus. We lived there in the winters, but still had our house in Cheshire and returned there in the summers. Or maybe I should say we were based there. Because we still spent weeks every year in the area of France that is now our home. We were captivated by it and it was not long before we took the plunge and bought a house which was, we understand, built by a drum major in Napoleon's army. Soon after this we sold the English house.
We are 500 metres above sea level. From one of our roof windows we can see the mediaeval castle. From our bedroom window we can see the plateau at 1000 metres, where 400 members of the Resistance were camped out during the Second World War, supplied from the air by the Royal Air Force and able to see, from their great height, if the occupying German army were approaching. There is a huge amount of visible history in the area, in spectacular settings. The roads are quiet, the weather is generally kind, without the stifling heat often found at lower altitudes. The local population has always treated us with the utmost kindness and courtesy.
We love the winters we now spend in New Zealand (3 months at a time) but it is becoming increasingly hard to tear ourselves away from what still seems, after 17 years of visiting, and 11 years of residence, like Paradise.
There is much more I could say but I think blog entries should generally be short, so I will return to the subject in later posts.
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