CHAPTER 27
I wasn’t that used ti flying, but by definition Ange was an old hand. There were, of course, no flights from Cardiff, so we had to take the train out to Bristol and fly from there, which spoilt my hopes of trying to spot my flat from the air. Anyway, it was raining.

Toulouse came as a shock, for I was expecting a simple place, not realising it was the world headquarters of the Airbus company. I’d managed to work out the interrail thing, which was actually called ‘Eurrail’ or something, and we had seats booked on a train from the central station, a shuttle bus handy for the transfer. The signage was good, which was a blessing considering my utter lack of French. The driver simply grunted when I showed him my rail pass, and for a couple of Euros we were on our way.

There was a lot of industry, and an odd lake with draglines all over it for water skiing, and a lot of scruffy housing. Ange was deep in her copy of the ‘Rough Guide’, and suddenly snorted.

“It’s like Splott, woman! I mean, at least in one of their specialities”

“Which are?”

“Lavendar, sausages, rugby”

She paused, grinning.

“And it’s not the rugby, but the last thing”

“And?”

“Prostitutes!”

“You’re kidding!”

“Nope. Place is famous for them. Bloody France, ey?”

A quick transfer saw two still-giggling women sinking into some well-worn seats on a local train, as the heat started to bite. Both the airport and bus had been air conditioned, but neither the station nor our little train had that advantage. We rumbled out through masses of tenements before finally hitting the country, under a brilliant blue sky. Little towns came and went, until we finally arrived in Carcassonne.

It felt odd having to climb down to the platform, unlike the level access I took for granted in the UK, but we were in Foreign Parts, so I could adjust. We shouldered our rucksacks and found the station exit. Angela stopped dead, looking around at the view, where a green-water canal lock sat between us and the town proper.

“Jen?”

“Aye?”

“Bloody good choice, woman! This is lovely! Where’s our digs at, then?”

I looked at the little street map I had printed from the hotel website.

“Five minutes. Along the canal for a bit”

When I turned off, down a narrow street where all the walls seemed to have been painted cream and all windows and shutters remained closed, we could see a bloody great ‘HOTEL’ sign sticking out, which was a definite clue. In, the place offering air-con and the receptionist speaking some English, thank god. There was a short queue of other guests, all of whom seemed to be on bicycles. Ange, of course, was riffling through her guidebook.

“Cycle route along the canal, Jen. You can go all the way from the Atlantic to the Med, it says.

One of our new neighbours laughed, and in a broad Geordie accent advised us (I think) that you could go an awful lot further, such as his own Calais to Gibraltar route.

Bugger that for any idea of fun.

Our room was surprisingly modern, and absolutely spotless. It was still only eleven o’clock by my watch, or noon in local terms, so we dumped almost all of our luggage before heading straight back out. Things to see, and more things to see, and cameras loaded for whatever they might be. Ange led the way this time, along a broader street lined with stone buildings, many with wrought iron balcony rails or whatever they’re called, all shaded by trees with broad leaves and bark that peeled in wide, thin sheets. Our first stop was at a fast food place, where we bought ice creams. I mean, we were on holiday after all, and some things have to be done.

Ange was still gabbling on about stuff in her guidebook.

“This place, Jen? All the old houses? This is the new town, it says. Locals were kicked out of the old town, left to fend for themselves”

“Why?”

“Er, bloody religion. Lots of nasties around here. Leave it for now, ey?”

We came to the end of our broad street, by some massive parade ground or whatever, and Ange led us across its base before picking up a much narrower street, something about a Pont vieux, and old bridge, and wow. It was like one of our old stone bridges, with little nooks to stand off the road, crowned by lanterns on metal frames, a river running below us. On the opposite bank stood that Disney-style fortress I had seen, and it was stunning.

“Go up there tomorrow, Jen? Make a proper day of it?”

I leant in to kiss her, more than happy with our trip so far.

“Fancy a bimble along the river bank, Ange?”

“Why not?”

We set off hand in hand, with various small birds flitting about, of which type I have no idea, but at one point, where there were shoals in the river and a very basic concrete footbridge/ford, I saw one I did know, a dipper. Some sort of kite was circling above, and then, to my surprise, we found a real delight: a public swimming pool.

“Check the hours, Ange. That little bridge looks like it links to the place with the towers. If we go up tomorrow by that first bridge, we could come back this way for a swim”

Our plans were settling into reality. We explored more of the cramped streets, passing some immense blue doors to some pretentious hotel, covered in French flags, and then pooped out onto a medium-sized square with an elaborate fountain at its centre. The outside was a solid mass of tables set under awnings, with restaurants behind. Ange was grinning happily.

“I think we just answered an important question: the location for tonight’s garlic frenzy!”

We walked round the square, looking at various menus, stopping at one of the simpler ones cold drink and a ooh-a-goat’s-cheese-salad-with-balsamic-vinegar and a small pizza to share. We got sharp looks from a couple of passers by as we held hands, but fuck’em was my thought, which then, naturally, left me chuckling at the thought that actually fucking them was most likely to be the very last thing I wanted to do.

“What’s up, Jen?”

“A couple of snide looks. Nothing to worry about. Look, how about we just go straight back to the room, grab our cossies and go for a swim anyway? We can still do the same tomorrow, after the tour, aye?”

So we did, and I made sure I held her hand all the way there and back. We got our swim in, which was such a delight in the heat, and we ate at one of the tables on the square where the menu was in multiple languages in a sort of file folder, and the house wine was served in crockery jugs with a meal where the chef had certainly not skimped on the garlic, and that was our first day of a proper holiday.

We spent three nights in Carcassonne, the old mediaeval part heaving with tourists and overflowing with shitty tourist tat, before heading for the coast, with a change in a scruffy place called Narbonne. My next hotel was as close to the Spanish border as I could get, on a corner just behind the beach, which was gravel. The route down had been so scenic it was painful, including a meander through wetlands where white and buff stork things stood on the backs of black cows and flamingos just stood in flocks; the mountains came closer and closer, and we had a brilliant blue sea to our left. It was like a tourist office poster, till you looked a little closer at some of the more worn trackside buildings.

At Cerbère, the station was huge, or at least the lines around it were. Ange waved her Magic Book once again.

“Different width tracks in Spain, that’s why”

“That’s stupid!”

“That’s life, Jen”

We struggled down the hill to our hotel, which was of course painted cream (but with orange detailing). Our room had no air con, but an iron-railed balcony had a couple of worn chairs. I wiped my brow, felt the damp in my pits, and just grinned at my lover.

“Beach?”

“Beach!”

Gravel it was, so we invested in a couple of reed mats from a beachfront tat shop, and then I was underwater. I could see a single yellow buoy out in the harbour, so we swam to that, then pulled ourselves down its cable for about fifteen feet until we were standing on the seabed grinning at each other through our other purchase, face masks.

A shared shower afterward led to, well, let’s just say we stayed in the cubicle and had another rinse. We stepped out, eventually, in search of another Full Garlic, and Ange caught my arm.

“Just a sec, Jen. This street. This is a bloody storm drain! The whole street. See where the bit for pedestrians is up so high? What bloody time of year does that happen, ey?”

“Dunno, aye? As long as it isn’t while we’re here. This place looks okay. Pink wine?

“Pink wine!”

Going out to eat, sitting at a pavement table under an awning, and all of around a hundred feet from our actual balcony; I felt decadent, right up until I laughed at something, and half a gallon of water fell out of my nose. Ange’s “What the…” was interrupted by a similar outpouring, and then the waiter was with us, offering fresh napkins along with our main courses.

“Plongeuses?”

“Sorry; I’m Welsh”

“Ah! English! You were doing the diving? The scuba?”

“No, just swimming, but we did go deep”

“It is the pressure. The water goes in the cavities here”

He tapped just above the bridge of his nose, and Angie said, “Ah! Of course. Any risk?”

“No, Mam’selle. It goes in, it emerges. But best that it emerges before your food is served, as it has. Bon appetit!”