Nowhere to go and all day to get there
I remember hearing of some obscure French law that obliged municipitalities to put up any travellers without a place to stay. Was that why the Office de Tourisme had arranged this very comfortable billet for me at the former chateau? I was on foot, and as I hobbled in dripping with sweat, the O de T could tell I was the genuine article.
I have decided to walk to Carcassone along the canal. Not only is it easier and cooler, but today's prescribed route would have taken me through a forest. M. Lepere warns of the possibility of getting lost and suggests an alternative path along the road for nervous travellers. That was enough for me. Getting lost in a forest is a nightmare! Anywhere else, you just keep walking and eventually you arrive somewhere. In a forest you could walk around forever along winding roads leading nowhere. It is 80 kms to Carcassonne. I will stop at 20 km intervals, take four days, and rejoin M. Lepere there.
I eat breakfast, my usual two croissants and a coffee, at Cafe de la Grille, taking advantage of their wifi. Across the square is Cafe de la Paix where I had a couple of beers last night. They didn't have wifi. Nor did they tell me I could walk a few metres across the square to find it.
It is market day with all the familiar sights and sounds and smells as people set up their stalls.
The heavy thudding of a post, the clanging of metal scaffolding, the rumble of a cart, bursts of conversation of different tones and timbres, and the excited chatter of children on their way to school.
Cigarette smoke blends with fumes from the delivery vans. A tumble of onions reflects the early morning rays of the sun. A lady carefully arranges her oranges, best side up. (But she wouldn't fool my dear wife who would inspect them all very carefully, one by one, before buying.)
A little fox-terrier mix with "Jumbo" on his collar is barking at a black poodle who trots by in front of him. His master says "Assez" in time with his barking. Woof, Assez, Woof, Assez, Woof, Assez, until they both give up. The poodle is better behaved. His mistress mutters to him and he tries to look straight ahead, but he can't help sneaking a glance at his fellow canine. Why do little dogs make the loudest noise? An old man in the shape of an apostrophe shuffles across the square. The proprietor ventures out of his bar, stomach first.
There must have been a market in this square for hundreds of years. Much has remained the same: goods, people; only their carts have gone, to be replaced by modern vehicles. I wish I could linger longer.
It was almost half-past-nine by the time I left the village of Capestang. Soon I came upon a "Chantier Interdit" sign. In the past I have ignored these with varying consequences. This time the sign was on a wire mesh fence that ran from the border of the canal, across the bank, and out into a farmer's field. On the other side, a front-end loader was scooping mud out of a barge and dumping it in a chute where it flowed down onto the field like lava.
I wasn't going to mess around with mud so I followed the detour sign and ventured inland. But halfway into the field there was a chance to cut across and get back to the canal. I took it.
You never know with a detour sign. Is it in your best interests to follow it? In this case it would have been. Unbeknown to me, at that point the canal took a tight loop, and the detour was in fact a short cut. But I was back on the bank of the canal, now facing another chain fence and a "Chantier Interdit" sign. This was obviously the next dumping site for the canal mud. But it wasn't in operation yet, and I couldn't go back, so I sneaked around the end of the fence where it bordered the canal, dashed across the site, repeated the process on the other side, and then continued on. This was the big event of the day, which is why I have described it in some detail.
I walked on. Soon I came to a dredge which was sucking mud off the bottom and dumping it into a barge which would then be towed to the Chantier Interdit. Boats continued to pass by in both directions. I stopped for a salad at the little village of Argeliers. And then pressed on. Soon I crossed the branch of the canal which led down to Narbonne. And a few more kilometres and I arrived at Le Somail. I checked in at a chambre d'hôtes facing the canal.
Le Somail is a village that doesn't date back to antiquity. It developed as a little port on the Le Canal du Midi, the third evening stop for the postal boat out of Toulouse. A few old buildings, formerly associated with canal business, line the banks. The only jarring note is an ugly chateaud'eau which should have been placed out of town.
Interesting is a former library which was now a bookshop.
I had a couple of beers and then supper in the evening at the Auberge du Somail. It was a pleasant spot beside the canal. I could pick out the Brits from the large 500 cl jugs they were drinking, the closest thing to, and even more generous than, a pint. Some lads were jumping in from the top of the old stone bridge. If they had seen the poison which neighbouring farmers were pumping onto their grapes in the neighbouring fields, they might have been less keen.
At the next table was a mongrel dog, the kind that never gets chosen at the dogs' home. He was not handsome. I've seen him before in Australian outback towns, where he gets kicked by his master when the pub has no beer. And I've seen him in Spain on the Meseta, lying in the dirt in the hot sun. He wasnt even ugly. He was just brown and nondescript. And here he was again, this time sitting at a table with his master and mistress. Somebody loved him. Somebody didn't judge by appearances.
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