26th May 1999, Wednesday 0915hrs. Hot. Carcassonne. I write on the top bed of a bunk of a bed in our first Auberge de Jeunesse in Carcassonne. The view from the window takes in the towers of a medieval castle – Le Chateau de Comte, which the hostel is just outside of. It’s inside the fortress-like walls of La Cite, however, and walking round last night was like stepping back in time. We said goodbye to Nick and Suzanne and caught the train to Toulouse at 1215. At about 3pm (still on the train) I realised that despite being bloody huge, Toulouse wasn’t in my Lonely Planet guidebook, and on top of that, there wasn’t a Youth Hostel there. So, uncertain of getting anywhere, let alone anywhere cheap to sleep, we checked out the other places the train stopped at, by leaning out of the window at one of the stops and trying to write down as many places that were announced as we could. From our mishmashed list, we spotted Carcassonne, double checked both the fact that it had a hostel and looked interesting, and agreed to get off here instead. And bloody beautiful it is too.
Last night we had a slap-up chicken and chips after arriving at 6:30 (6hrs 15 on the train!) and then enjoyed a Kronenbourg on the cite walls which were spectacularly lit (and blindingly so, close up) . We’re being evicted at 10am, as the nature of our unexpected arrival meant we had no reservation, and the hostel is full tonight. We’re going to look for ‘Camping de la Cite’ which sounds close, but you never know...
Now for smaller towns, we had no map in the lonely Planet, and because of our unexpected arrival we had no tourist office map. We asked directions in the youth hostel, and loaded up with all our bags (large one at the back, day pack over the front...oh how stylish) and trundled down the cobbled lanes of La Cité and out of the front gates.
And we turned right.
Half an hour later we were standing on the wide crest of a hill covered with vines, looking over the tops of the bright light green leaves on the frames of cane and wire to the distant pointed black towers of the citadel wall. I'm not entirely sure how we got there.
After forty-five minutes' exhausting walk in the hot sun, and having gained a great photo opportunity for long distance shots of the citadel, we found ourselves twenty feet away from where we had started, on a path marked 'Camping de la Cité'.
Such is life.
Along this leafy little wandering track we passed sheep grazing under the castle walls, and a little stream which flowed directly under them before coming to the campsite, which was deserted. we wandered in and pitched our tent, and eyed the gloriously cool-looking swimming pool. After our epic trek around the surrounding hills and pitching out tent, there was nothing we wanted more.
An attendant arrived.
He sat loungingly in the office and kept an eye on us as we dug out our swimming kit and aimed for the pool. Gemma changed quickly and was out dipping her toe by the time I had translated the notice in the men's changing room. A small box full of stained and torn speedos sat underneath the sign.
I had to make a decision. The guy in the office came out and wandered over to the pool.
If I wanted to swim...I had to wear the trunks provided. I prodded through the box, found the least skanky looking pair, and swallowed my pride. The campsite was practically deserted, anyway.
Thirty seconds after I got into the pool, we were joined by a lovely couple from Southampton.
We got on quite well and they invited us over to their tent for a drink that evening.
Feeling suitably refreshed we wandered up to the main castle in the citadel to take the tour. Unfortunately the last English language tour of the day had gone the previous hour. We would have to take the tour in French, or not at all.
In any group listening to a speaker, there is always one who appears to be listening the most intently. It is human nature for the speaker to focus on this, their principal listener. Unfortunately, it was me, and I was concentrating because I had no idea what the hell the guy was talking about. But every so often, he would gesture in my direction as we clambered around the high castle walls and expect a reaction. I am ashamed to say that I wittered noncommitally and generally tried to react to his tone and facial expressions. The French part of my brain gave up after he said, "Hello Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Castle of the Count."
Still, we got the marvellous views of the jumbled up rooftops of the citadel buildings and the vineyards around the town, and the new town as well which curled around the walls of the old fortifications as if embracing it.
We ate a huge pizza on the way back to the campsite, bought beer to bring to the campsite revelry, and got thoroughly drunk - four people from the South of England sitting in a tent under the walls of a medieval citadel in the South of France, surrounded by goats and vineyards.
It was a wonderful evening.
The next day we were heading to Barcelona.
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